If We Met at Midnight
by CelticGames4
Summary: Christenson. Stallosky. Sheffield. Kasparek. Bannister. Families that took residence in District 12 that may not have been listed in Katniss's perspective, but are the opposite of unimportant. Follow these five lineages through the ages, from the Dark Days to the end of the Capitol, through love and losing it, friendship, heartbreak, death, and most importantly, rebellion.
1. Kaspareks-Rebellion

-Kaspareks: Rebellion-era (70th-End of Games)-

_Dennis_

It's another gray day here in this stupid District. Another day of schedules printed on arms, another day of trying to read the ink over tattoos. Another day of receiving disgusted looks from people. Another day of people gaping at tattoos and asking me if I'm from the Capitol.

If they knew anything about tattoos, they'd obviously know I'm not from the Capitol. They've got those cool scanner-like devices that just print it right onto you, whereas in places like 12, the tattoos are scarred because we have to use the old-fashioned needles and, you know, actually make art.

I hate it here, but I have no other place to go considering my home is gone now. My poor District 12. It was a place I never thought I'd miss, but now, sitting in this perfectly pristine gray cubic prison, I do miss it. Maybe I just miss the people that I've lost over the past year or so.

My name is Dennis Kasparek. I'm 18 years old. I was a tattoo artist back home, and I did all my trading from the Hob and I never once went behind that stupid electric fence. (Sidenote: Do you know how fucking hard it is to trade for squirrel meat in that place?!) I used to live in the Seam with my Dad and work in the mines with my best friends.

It wasn't a great life, but now that I look back on it, it really was the best kind of life you can live in District 12. One that acknowledges the fact that I could die anytime from any cause and to make the best of what little time I have. One where drinking with Peacekeepers was more common than getting shot by them. One where I got up and worked hard every day for what little I could get, and could spend the night doing art. One where my Dad and I may've gotten into screaming matches every day, but that's okay because he really did care about me.

I sit by myself in my compartment, wishing I had the luxury of looking out the window when I was having a sleepless night like this one. I don't want to go to sleep. Every time I close my eyes I see dying people, people that I held near and dear to me in their coffins, I see graves with names carved into them, usually by my hand because my hands are the most stable.

_I went to the graveyard. The day before District 12 was bombed. It was like something in me knew I would have to say goodbye to it even before that arrow was let go and the entire fucking nation was flipped upside-down. _

_I walked for a long time, hands in my pockets, reading the names on the graves. Some of them I recognized, some of them I didn't. An Everdeen and a Hawthorne. I shook my head and push the memories of that fateful day with the explosion out of my mind. Half a dozen or so other graves lay around those two with the same date on them. _

_I kept walking. So many Games graves. The most recent two belong to Orlick Bannister and Kiera Hartzell. I remembered, I still remember, that terrible day I spent hunched over two slabs of rock, trying to make sure the letters were even. I went back and forth all day between crying fits and carving, considering that Orlick Bannister happened to be someone I really loved. I didn't even know it until Stallosky forced me to admit it six months later during the Victory Tour. Watching Everdeen volunteer for her sister made it worse. _

_I saw a couple of stones so worn out that only one or two letters were still legible. I wondered if that's all that would become of Orlick and Kiera's graves, as well, random rocks that some wanderer will walk past without a clue or a care who they represent. _

It was only a day before those bombs. I had no idea, but everything was going to change. There would be no more gravestones, no more graveyard, no more Hob, no more anything, as far as any of us know. We wouldn't know, though, the stiff-necks in this hell hole won't tell us anything and they won't let us see it, either. I'm left to assume District 12 looks a lot like the above-ground of this mess.

_I saw one grave that had nothing legible except for a small string of letters: "LIE A". If I had paid attention and stayed in school more, I'd have probably known enough about the Games to place it. I'm not that smart, though, and kept walking. _

_I saw two graves, side-by-side, both labeled Sheffield but the rest worn off. The name sounded and still sounds familiar to me, and looking back on it now, I think somehow one or both of them knew my Dad. I even saw a couple of graves with Kasparek on them, but no names that I recognized. _

_I passed the grave of Hector Stallosky, my good friend Sylvester's father who died in the mines. Sylvester's buried next to him, his name a lot fresher and more legible than his father's. Yet another one of the stones engraved by my hand. _

_That was a hard day for me. It was one of the few times since I turned ten that my father had sing to me to ward off nightmares. Probably the most abrupt, overwhelming sense of grief I've ever felt in my life. After I was done with the grave I had to tattoo myself till the sky was dark to keep the same knife that carved the rock from carving any part of me. And the funeral was even worse. _

_The worst part about that mess is that I watched Sylvester die gradually. It was starvation that finally took him; over the years he would often get sick and would grow paler and paler each time but he never stopped. He had small scars in various places from some bad infections and that one really bad case of the measles. And he had big scars on his back from being whipped after getting caught stealing from the Victor's Village. That was another of the many nightmarish days spent in District 12. _

_Anyways, through the years I watched Sylvester grow weaker, work more, and get sick. His life must've been miserable, there's no way it could've not been, besides maybe his sister Willow. Stuck working the days away, no food, no clean water to drink or bathe in, and yet he never gave up on anything. In fact, he was the most stubborn-ass person I ever knew. _

_I shook the thought from my head and kept walking. I passed various other Games graves, some of people I knew, some of complete strangers. I walked and walked until I reached Orlick and Kiera's grave, and that's when I started to break down. _

_Orlick was my best friend (he was more than my best friend, I loved him so much, he was my whole world and though I can't say he returned my feelings with a whole heart, I can say that he was my boyfriend though I don't really want to say that around these 13 people because they seem snobby enough to be homophobes: associating it with the Capitol, just like they associate art and color with the damn place) and yet I let him off to die anyways, I didn't volunteer for him like the Saint Katniss Everdeen volunteered for her sister. I should've, but I didn't. _

_Losing Orlick was a big eye-opener for me. He was the first person I really gave my heart to, and the first person that trusted his heart to me. Looking back on it, now, I tried to make him stay with fear, and I abused my privilege of his delicate little heart in my hands. I didn't see that until it was too late. After that I was in a depressed rut that Sylvester broke, the day before he left me, too. Art's the only thing I ever had to get me out of it. And sometimes my Dad, if he wasn't drunk. _

_I finally made it to the second most recent grave in that graveyard. The one for my Dad, the one that didn't take me very long to carve at all considering I've had lots of experience with it. He was shot by a Peacekeeper, a Peacekeeper who I knew plenty well and who I tattooed (and who raped me multiple times, conscious and unconscious), and yet he shot my Dad for whistling that Hanging Tree song. It's now the anthem of the rebels, thanks to Miss Perfect Mockingjay. _

I know I need to be nice to our rebellion leader, and at least try to look up to her, but everything about her makes me seethe with envy. Maybe it's her happy relationship with the blonde kid that does it, just jealousy that a love like _that _can live, while mine are all gone forever.

I've always known that rebellion is necessary, but I never would've dreamt of it costing this much. And now that I've watched all the people I love drop off like flies, I start to doubt how much I really want this. I just have to keep reminding myself that we're fighting to end the Games forever, end those pageants that took Orlick away from me, fighting to defeat the Capitol that neglected our people to starvation and sent Peacekeepers like the one that killed my Dad. Damn the Capitol!

_After spending a long, sad moment at my father's grave, I moved on to the freshest grave in District 12. It's not a real grave considering there's not a real body buried beneath it. In fact, the only reason it's there is because the other Peacekeepers wanted it there in memorial of someone they thought was a very important person. _

_I make sure to flip off the grave of Diesel Bundren, the Peacekeeper that killed my father and violated me. He was killed by a good friend of mine, Rouge Beauregard. She was a Peacekeeper from District 2 who was way pro-Capitol until she was forced to 12 and I got to her. In fact, she shot Diesel Bundren right in the head and then she took off, disappeared under the fence, and I haven't seen her since. I owe a lot to her, though. She's a bitch when she's drunk, but I guess she wasn't the worst friend ever. _

I draw all over the tiny sheet of paper I have that's supposed to last a week. If I had known they were going to destroy my home and I'd end up in such a grim, professional hell-hole, I would've taken all the paper I've ever owned. There were some drawings I really liked, and they're gone. Not to mention my needle, and all those stupid old Kasparek keepsakes.

Suddenly I reach into the pocket of my old coat from home (which I wear when I'm in my compartment; it's much more comforting to me than this stupid gray rat-ugly thing) and find the two halves of paper, the last thing I have left that reminds me of home besides the coat (but I have to hide the coat; I don't want them taking it away) and it's the last thing I have left of my Dad.

I put the halves together again and study the drawing of the happy boy with smiling, round eyes, messy hair, and a beanie. I still can't believe it was done by my father's hand; I didn't know he was anything of an artist. It's one of the things he had in common with me that I never knew until he was long gone.

I read the note again. I read it multiple times. It's addressed to a Sheffield, probably one of the two I saw in the graveyard that day.

Just then, I think to check the schedule printed on my arm and realize I should be out for food. I leave my compartment and start walking, only stopping short when I hear tiny sobs. I'm no good with things like this, but I have to at least try, so I wander towards the sound.

I find the maker of the noise sitting against a wall next to a storage closet, crying quietly into his knees. He's a tiny little thing, no older than 12 or 13 I'm sure. I kneel down in front of him.

"Hey," I say, as quietly and gently as I can. He jumps a bit and stares up at me with teary, dark gray eyes. "Hi there," I whisper again, trying my damndest to be gentle.

He sniffles. "Hi," he says, voice wavering with tears.

"What's wrong, kid?"

"I'm n-not a kid," he sniffles.

I lightly touch a hand to his shoulder and he doesn't make any effort to move it. "Of course not. Rebellion forces you to grow up fast, doesn't it?" He sniffles and nods tearily into his knees.

"How old are you?"

"Thirteen," he chokes out.

"Ah, I see. I'm eighteen."

He nods a bit, whimpering and trying not to cry.

"What's the matter?"

He wipes his eyes and looks up at me, a sad expression on his face. "M-My brother Hal's gonna join the military," he sniffle, "He's gonna go fight 'nd leave me here b-by myself!" he wipes his eyes.

"Oh," I say quietly, "I see." I rub his back gently.

"He said… H-He said District 12's g-gone…" he cries quietly, "'Nd we were lucky to live…"

"I'm sorry to say, but he's not lying."

"Why?"

"Because the Capitol's a nasty place."

"Yeah, it is." He sighs sadly into his knees and whimpers. "I'm angry that Hal's leaving. He's leaving j-just like Dad left us at an orphanage after Mom died…"

I rub his back gently. "That's terrible."

"I don't want Hal to go," he says quietly, "I don't want him to leave me and Biddy. Why would he want to!?" he starts crying again, softly.

"Want to know something? I'm going to fight, too, in the military, just like your big brother."

"Y-You are?" He looks up at me with wide, misty eyes.

"That's right."

"Wh-Why?'

"Lemme tell you a story." He nods and I continue, "Back in District 12, I lived a fairly happy life. My Dad and I didn't get along very well, but he was there when I needed him to be. I was friends with Peacekeepers-" he gasps a little and I nod, "They liked my art. But my two best friends were both native to 12, just like us."

He nods a little, swallowing hard. I continue. "One of them was a few years younger than me. His name was Orlick. The other was a couple years older than me. His name was Sylvester. Orlick, Sylvester and I worked together in the mines. Every day we worked very hard, and we weren't paid very much thanks to the Capitol."

The little boy keeps nodding. "Like Hal 'nd the other orphan boys used to. They came back all coal-dusty every day."

"Yeah, that's right." I smile a little, trying to get him to forget his tears, though unfortunately the story doesn't get much happier. "My friends weren't much, but they meant the world to me. But things didn't go very well. Orlick died at age 14 in the 73rd Hunger Games." The poor boy gasps a little. I nod sadly and keep going. "Sylvester died after Katniss's first Games, the 74th. He starved to death because the Capitol doesn't pay coal miners well at all."

"That's terrible!"

"And one of the Peacekeepers who I thought was a friend shot my Dad for singing Hanging Tree."

"I know that song!" he says, "My brother Hal sings it to me sometimes! He says that Dad sang it to him a lot."

"I like that song. But after my Dad was shot, the rebellion happened and now we're here." He nods. "I'm going to go and fight not for myself or my generation, but for all the youngins like you who would still have to worry about reapings. I was never through the Games, but I never ever want anyone again to suffer through them. I don't want to be starved. I don't want people to fall into the fates of my best friends, and I certainly don't want anyone to be in my position ever again."

He nods a little bit.

"I'm not fighting for myself anymore. I have nothing else to lose. I'm fighting for generations to come, I'm fighting for people that I'll probably never meet. And I may die for them, but I may not. And I promise I'll protect Hal. How does that sound?"

"Would you!?" he smiles at me, his eyes lighting up. "That would be so good! Thank you! Thank you so much!"

I pat his head, his raven black hair soft in my fingers, and hug him back lightly. He puts his chin on my chest and smiles up at me. "You said you knew Hanging Tree… Would you sing it to me?"

"Uh, sure." I'm not confident at all in my singing ability, but I sing anyways, trying to stay on pitch. The kid listens like I sang it really well.

Once I get through the song, he's smiling and his eyes are dry. I release him and ruffle his soft hair, smiling softly.

"My name is Dennis. What's yours?"

"Proctor," he says, "Proctor Kasparek!"

I freeze up and glance at him, confused.

"Y-You're a Kasparek?!" I ask, shocked. Suddenly some very _very_ fuzzy memories come to mind of an Uncle and Aunt, of a playdate when I was just a kid and of hanging onto my Dad's sleeve while watching a couple of strangers and a shy little boy hugging his Dad's leg.

"Yeah. Proctor Kasparek."

After a pause, I hug him tightly and press his face into my chest, delighted at finding something special to me that I can protect and call my own again. He hugs me back tightly, though I'm sure he's confused.

"It's nice to meet you, Proctor. I… I think we're cousins."


	2. Kaspareks- 58th, Rebellion II

-Kaspareks: 58th Games-

_Kyran_

I finish cleaning the house just as I hear a knock on the door. I open the door and see my brother there, with his wife and his little boy.

"Kyran!" Anse, my older brother, hugs me for the first time since I was eighteen and crying at Salem's funeral. I hug him back, just glad to see him. We haven't talked for the longest time, but finally decided to get together after reuniting a couple of months back.

"Hey Ansey," I say quietly, laughing as his face contorts to a huffy sigh.

"Hi Kyran," his wife Rose says. She's a lovely woman with long, dark Seam hair and bright eyes.

"Nice to see you, Rose." She hugs me and I hug back.

Just then, I glance down at the small boy that holds tightly to his Mom's leg. "And who's this?" I offer with a gentle smile.

Anse strokes the little boy's hair gently. "This is Hal. Hal, this is your Uncle Kyran." He waves shyly and I smile gently at him. "It's nice to finally meet you, Hal. In fact, I think I have someone here that you can be friends with. Come on in, all of you."

I let them in, and the small family of three follows.

"Hey Dennis," I say, and my two-year-old boy looks up from where he was sucking on his fingers and watching a rerun of the 25th Games on the TV. When he sees the other family, he quickly hides behind my legs, hugging one of them tightly.

I laugh a little bit and pat his head. "This is your Uncle Anse and your Aunt Rose."

Dennis peeks out from my legs shyly, still sucking his fingers, and waves shyly.

Rose kneels down, smiling in her motherly way. "Hi there Dennis. It's nice to meet you."

"Hi," mumbles Dennis.

"How old are you?" she asks, with the interested smile only a mother can manage.

"Two." His grip on my leg loosens slightly.

"Two? That's very cool." She smiles softly. "I know someone else that's two. And I think he might like to be your friend." Dennis looks at her, sucking his fingers, interested. "Would you like to meet him?"

Dennis nods, and Rose gestures for Anse to come over with Hal. Rose takes her little boy's hand and leads him over gently. "This is Hal. He's your cousin." She turns to Hal, brushing the bangs out of his face. "Hal, this is Dennis. He wants to be your friend. Want to say hi?"

"Hi," mumbles Hal. Dennis smiles and waves, letting go of my leg but grabbing my shirt sleeve.

"What do you like to do, Dennis?" Anse and I exchange a smile.

"I like to draw 'nd color," Dennis says, sucking on his fingers, "'Nd I like to play house and also play superhero…"

"Ooh, I like to play house!" Hal says happily, and soon the two boys run off together, giggling.

I smile and sit down on my favorite rocking chair, the other two having a seat.

"So, how have things been?" I ask.

"They've been pretty good with us," Anse says. "But how about you?"

"It's been a couple of years of restoration," I sigh. "Trying to build myself back up again after what happened with Salem and the Sheffields."

"Have you talked to Holland lately? Or Hester?" Anse asks.

"No. Not lately."

"You should consider it. They can help you."

"Maybe. Once Dennis is off in school."

Rose glances at the TV and frowns. "You let Dennis watch this?"

"He should know what the Games are."

"Isn't he… A little young, though?"

"He doesn't get it yet."

"I just… I don't know if he should be watching…" she bites her lip.

"He isn't messed up yet," I say quietly.

"Alright," she says. I'm sure she's already questioning my parenting methods, like_ I_ haven't been questioning them for the past 2 years or so.

"Have you heard anything from his mother?" Anse asks.

"No, not since she left him on my doorstep." I sigh quietly.

"I'm sorry, Little Bro," Anse says, looking at me with sad, sympathetic eyes. He knows how much my life sucks, even if Rose doesn't. After all, he was there every step of it. He was always the one to take me home when I got drunk, always the one to sit with me while I cried, always my escort to the funerals… Anse was always there for me, and I guess I never acknowledged that when I was younger.

"It's fine."

"Well, I hope you've been letting Dennis make you happy."

"The pipsqueak's the only thing I've got left."

We hear happy squealing coming from the other side of the room, and two little voices giggling.

"The terrible two's aren't too terrible," Rose says, smiling and adding, "No pun intended."

"Yeah, I guess not."

"Well I think it's because we've got some good kids," Anse says. We all look over to where Dennis and Hal giggle madly, imagining some scene that no adult could ever perceive.

"Dennis isn't really that great at making friends," I say quietly.

"Hal's a bit shy himself."

"They seem happy together."

"Yeah. I hope we don't lose either of them to the Games," sighs Anse. My mind goes to Dallas, sweet little Dallas Sheffield, who we never even thought to think could possibly go off into the Games. But he did, and he died on the first day.

"We still have ten years," Rose says quietly. "Ten years before it even becomes a remote worry."

My stomach tightens. "Two years have gone so fast, though. They'll be ready for reapings before any of us know it."

"Well… There's no use worrying about it now," Rose says, "Maybe the Games will be over before the kids even get to them."

"Damn the Capitol," I breathe. Anse looks at me with a sad glint in his eyes. He knows how much I mean those words. He knew me better than anyone, and he still does.

He was there when I was nothing but a three year old and asked why there was so much blood on the TV. He was there when I was 7 and learned what the Games really were. He was there when I was 12 and so scared for my first reaping I dissolved into a sobbing mess while eating breakfast. He was there when I was 15 and woke up screaming from a nightmare. He was there the first time I ever had a blade hovering over my skin, when I was 18, the night Salem got reaped.

He was there with me through the whole Games. And he was there to sing Hanging Tree over and over again until I passed out the day Salem died. He was there for the Victory Tour, and let me squeeze his hand so hard he couldn't feel it to keep from running up there and beating the Victor of Salem's Games to a pulp.

Then he was gone. He didn't see how much I was affected by Dallas dying, and West soon after him. He didn't see me curled up and crying after being raped by Dennis's mother.

"Damn the Capitol indeed, Little Brother," he says quietly. Rose gives us a sharp look.

"Oh, the kids didn't hear," Anse says.

"Dennis has heard worse," I admit sheepishly. Rose is already doubtful of my parenting ability, what else is there to hide?

"Right…"

"Anyways, let me get some refreshments…"

~.~.

-Kaspareks: Rebellion-

_Dennis_

Having a gun in my hands for the first time is quite the experience.

Our tall, thin instructor (with really, uh, defined [?] curves- not that I care) shows us how to hold the gun first. It's easy for me, though Hal fumbles before gripping it tightly. I can only hope that we end up on the same squad… Protecting this kid is going to prove to be harder than I thought.

She shows us how to aim, and shoot. The precision with which she hits the target makes my heart jump.

She turns to face us, her long, dark ponytail swaying professionally behind her.

"Time to practice, Recruits! Every bullet counts, don't waist it."

The other recruits are all much older than Hal and I, and they've probably seen just about as much shit as we have. We find stations to practice at, and the thought crosses my mind that I should probably say hi to Hal and tell him who I am.

Hal shoots his first shot before I even start aiming, and I take my time to make sure this doesn't miss. I hear Commander Dilaver's footsteps and feel her eyes watching us closely. I roll the sleeves up off my wrists and aim.

"Any day now, Private!" Commander Dilaver barks, and I practically jump out of my skin.

"Everyone else shot a century ago!"

"Alright, alright, I'm going…" I mutter.

"You'd better pitch the attitude right now, Private," she says, with a cold tone. "I'll leave you off with a warning. Shoot it."

I swallow hard and nod, pulling the trigger and shooting the gun.

"Kasparek 1 would've been shot ten times in the process," she barks to the other recruits. She walks to the target slowly, crossing her arms. "But, if somehow ten people would've taken bullets for him… Not a bad shot." She raises an eyebrow, her expression flickering for just a second to surprise before setting stone-hard again. After an analysis of the other's shots, she has us load up for another shot.

This time, I take less time to aim, though I'm still the last to shoot. She lets us shoot after that until we get a hang of it, though I feel her stare on me for an inordinate amount of time. By the end of our shooting session, I feel confident with my ability to shoot, though I still wouldn't last a second in combat.

Hal seems more shaken up, and when they make us run laps, he doesn't run quite as well as usual. I guess the guns just caused shit to get real for him, just like they did for the rest of us.

The end of training comes too quickly for my liking. I like _doing_ something instead of trying to read the schedule on my arm…

"Recruits dismissed!" The others file out and I'm about to follow when a hand grabs my shoulder.

"Kasparek 1!"

I bite my lip. "Y-Yeah, Commander?"

She puts an arm around my shoulders, "Walk with me, talk with me."

"Alright?" She walks and I walk with her, ready to lash out if she tries to touch me like Diesel did.

"The Districts need fighters. More fighters than we have ready to go."

"Yeah?"

"I got permission from the President to create a squad of recruits that are doing exceptional in training to be shipped off as soon as your training is over. It'd be a lot of Squad stuff and you wouldn't have to come back to this training. Think of it as advanced training."

"Uh…"

"I want you to join the squad, Dennis. You have it in you. You're a strong kid, I can see it. You've got strong in you."

I nod a little bit, not sure what to say.

"Bitchin' tats," she remarks. _She must not have been raised here_, I think.

My ears turn pink. "Oh, uh, thanks. I did them all myself." I know I shouldn't say that to the 13 people (they already think I'm shady and that doesn't help), but that's the only thing I have left to be proud of.

"Oh, did you?" She glances at the designs. "You seem to have quite the artistic hand."

"Yeah, I guess. I think I got it from my Dad." I smile awkwardly and she pats my back. "Where _is_ your Dad?"

"Uh, I don't have one. I-I mean, he, uh, he died. Shot by a Peacekeeper for singing. He was a real rebel." I know I shouldn't be running my mouth to someone I just met, but Commander Dilaver seems to be trustworthy enough and I figure that if I did lose my father because he was a rebel, the other rebels should know that. I add quickly, "And my Mom left me on his doorstep, so I don't even know who she is."

"Right." She doesn't look at me but she nods.

I scratch the back of my neck awkwardly, "Well, I have to get dinner…"

"Oh, good, that's where I'm off to as well." She walks up with me and we both grab food from the line.

She takes a seat as I get my rations. I look for Willow and Christian, or Proctor and Biddy and Hal, when I hear her voice beckoning, "Kasparek! Take a seat."

I slide down into a seat at the table, looking around.

"This would be your team, Kasparek." She turns to the others. "This is that trainee I was talking about."

I sink into my seat shyly. I have to be the youngest at that table by at least three or four years.

"Kasparek, this is McCarthy, Freedman, Grant, Barnett, Stewart, Stiltner, Shuman, and Timberland. Squad 185. The sister squads you'd be training with would be 195 and 205."

"Right."

"I want you to think hard about this. What have you got to lose?"

_Hal,_ I think, _And Proctor's promise. _

I pick at my food and nod silently.

"No need to be so grim, now!" one of the guys speaks up.

"Right…"

"What's your first name? And your age?" another asks. "We'll tell you ours if you say yours."

"Dennis," I say quietly, picking at my food, "I'm eighteen." I want to go sit with Willow and Christian or with my cousins.

"Nice to meet ya, kid! I'm Trace Timberland. 22."

"Kev Stiltner, 39."

"Irwin Freedman, 50."

"Ken Shuman, 43."

"Barry Grant, 64."

"Nelson McCarthy, 45."

"Warren Stewart, 24."

"Todd Grant, 60."

"And this here is Chinara Dilaver, our commander, she's-"

"Ken, you can't just go around telling women's ages to people!" the guy named McCarthy (?) scolds. The older men just laugh. The guy named Trace gives me a warm smile and I go back to staring at my food.

"Fifty-two," Commander Dilaver says curtly.

"Hey, that's my father's age. If he were still alive, I mean."

"Interesting," deadpans Commander Dilaver. The guys finish up their meal.

"Well, we have to be off, but it was nice meeting you, Kasparek!" Freedman says, with a salute.

"Uh, yeah, you too," I laugh awkwardly. The graying men go with Chinara, and the two younger guys linger.

"Hey, they can kind of be a lot to get used to," Stewart says, patting my shoulder, "But they always mean well."

"You're welcome with us," Timberland says. "Any time you see any of us, don't be afraid to say hi, okay?"

"Uh, sure." I don't mean that, of course, but I smile a bit.

"Alright, cool, talk to you later!" Stewart and Timberland run off to join the others. I sink down in a seat next to Christian.

"Hey, there you are!" Willow says, "I was almost worried!"

"You okay?" Christian asks, "You barely ate."

"Yeah, fine, it's just…" I bite my lip, glancing at Commander Dilaver and the group of talking men as they walk out the door, Timberland smiling and waving at me. The guys seem nice, and this is a great opportunity for me. Plus, Commander Dilaver is scary and I doubt I have a choice in this matter. But then I glance at Proctor and Biddy across the cafeteria, laughing wildly as Hal tells them a story.

I sigh quietly. "I'm just… Really… Torn."


End file.
